


Panglossian

by Ezekiel Grayson (MordeshLibertine)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Class Politics? In my Fluff? It's more likely than you think!, Cooking, Food, M/M, gay domestic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MordeshLibertine/pseuds/Ezekiel%20Grayson
Summary: The Warrior of Light settles into domestic life at his husband’s mansion in Ishgard, but isn't content to let the Servants do all the chores. Set in an imagined peaceful era post-Shadowbringers, but spoilers only really apply up through the end of Heavensward. Originally written for Prompt #18 of FFXIV Write 2020.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 11





	Panglossian

The first time Pyotyr had insisted on cooking for himself at the Borel Mansion, his husband was slightly confused, but supportive and intrigued, and his husband’s servants ran the gamut from scandalized to absolutely beside themselves with laughter to very excited to have an evening off. Duskwight Elezen or not, in Ishgard, Pyotyr was technically nobility, and nobility did not do their own cooking. Pyotyr however, insisted he was serious to any doubters, saying, “Noble by Adoption and Marriage or not, I’m still just a common country doctor at heart! I’ve cooked my own meals, done my own laundry, and made my own way for decades, and I can’t just quit all that right off, now, can I?”

Thus, on this particular day, for far from the first time, Pyotyr Ilych had once again shooed his husband’s servants from the kitchen. After tying his long hair into a ponytail, he donned an apron and immediately took to bustling about, stoking a fire, and gathering various spices and foodstuffs from various cabinets and cupboards. And thus, by the time Aymeric returned from the House of Lords, he found him there. Apparently content to watch, he leaned against the doorframe to see the cook in action.

Pyotyr, in the meantime, flitted from place to place, absorbed in his culinary dance. After chopping up a few stalks of celery and a large, yellow onion, he leaned up over the counter to pluck a few springs of thyme and a few bay leaves from the herb rack overhead, before finally turning to the cauldron hanging over the stove to fish out some browned meat and dump in the onions and a few bulbs of garlic into the pot instead.

From helping his mother prepare dinner at their old seaside shack, to mess duty on board his old ship, the Pomona, to scrounging dinner for himself and his daughters almost every night for years, Pyotyr had found that he enjoyed the rhythm of the kitchen, and the poetry of the product of the labor: disparate ingredients, mixed just right, to create something predictable,yet slightly different every time, a wonder of taste and discovery, the ultimate alchemy.

As the wondrous smell of garlic and onion began to fill the kitchen, he finished his preparation: Meat went back in the pot, a bowl of tomatoes he’d crushed earlier poured on top of that, the rest of the vegetables and a bit of water and a pour from a jug of cooking wine after that, then the thyme and bay leaves (He’d already added salt and pepper to the meat earlier, of course - Ishgard might prefer their salt in rocks, but Limsa knew to add it to the dish!), check the fire, lean back against the counter, wipe your brow, and await the fruit of your labors.

It was only then, as Pyotyr beamed at the bubbling pot in satisfaction, that Aymeric rose off the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen. Pyotyr looked over, eyes slightly wide in surprise, and quickly strode the length of the kitchen to wrap his arms around Aymeric and bestow a kiss on his cheek.

“Aymeric,” he said, warmth and happiness in his voice and his face alike, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there earlier! Welcome home, my dear.”

“‘Tis good to be home, Pyotyr,” Aymeric said in return, arms around his husband’s waist, forehead pressed to his forehead for a moment, “And think nothing of it. 'Twas I who hung back to watch you work rather than announce myself. Whether on the Battlefield or in the Kitchen, I am always awestruck and transfixed to watch you in your element.”

“Flatterer…” Pyotyr answered, his voice a murmur, his cheeks blushing as he wrapped his arms around his husband’s neck. They stayed like that for a few moments, enjoying being close to each other again after a long day.

“So,” Aymeric broke the silence first, “How was the Scholasticate?”

“Oh!” Pyotyr said, lighting up with a smile, “It was wonderful! There was a young lady from the Brume who came to sign up today. She attended my first lecture, and she had so many interesting, piercing questions about Arcanimagical theory! I’ve already given her a reading list and she sounded so eager to dive into it. I am so glad you expanded the scholasticate and opened it up to everyone. There are so many bright minds among the common folk that will get chances they might never have had.”

Aymeric smiled back, “I’m glad to hear it. These years of peace will only last if we allow all of Ishgard’s children to partake of its fruits. The noble houses have hoarded too much for too long.”

“It always cheers me to hear you speak so, my ravishing revolutionary,” Pyotyr laid his head on Aymeric’s shoulder for a moment, “And speaking of, the House of Lords didn’t given you too much trouble today, I hope?”

“Dzemael is up to their usual complaints,” Aymeric said, “but it is nothing I can’t handle. I think even Durendaire is finally coming around to the new ways, and the reconstruction bill the Commons put forth is so airtight, I don’t think even Dzemael will be able to vote against it in good faith.”

Pyotyr chuckled, “Hm. I’m sure they received some wonderful guidance and advice, to write such an airtight document.”

Aymeric looked innocent, “Well, if the common machinists at Skysteel Manufactory heard some things from Sir Stephanivien, and Hilda happened to overhear my discussion with Lucia regarding the Dzmael’s complaints regarding the taxes on Falcon’s Nest, I can’t say what they might have done with that information…”

Pyotyr blinked innocently, “Oh, the things people will do with idle chatter indeed.”

After another beat, Pyotyr kissed his husband’s cheek one more time,

“Thank you,” He murmured into his ear, softly, lowly.

“Thank you? For what?”

“For this. For everything. After so many years of struggle, to think that I’m here, in the arms of the man I love, in the house we live in together, with nothing spread out before us but lives to build together and a hard fought peace to enjoy. I do not know what the future may bring, but right now, I cannot imagine a more perfect world.”

“I am glad,” Aymeric said, “For I feel the same. But come, am I right in thinking the stew will keep on its own for a while?”

“Mmm. I'll want to add a few popotos and a carrot in a bit, once everything else is almost cooked, but it will keep for an hour or so til then, I think,” Pyotyr said, his voice a murmur as he hung happily off his husband, “Why?”

Aymeric began to walk, his steps guiding Pyotyr back toward a nearby table, then, leaning back, back over the table. Finally, Aymeric answered him.; 

“Because,” he said, “That just means I shall have to sate my hunger in other ways for now.”

Pyotyr blushed and chuckled, reaching up to undo the first button on his shirt collar, “I take it back, what I said earlier. NOW it’s perfect.”


End file.
